


You Just Have to Whisper

by ilookedback



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: (but nothing graphic), (but pretty vanilla), Established Relationship, F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Unprotected Sex, brief mention of blood/potential injury, just like, light biting, needy loving sex, once again probably could be angsty and instead is just soft and sweet, slightly rough sex, written in second person but no use of y/n
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:54:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24974908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: “Javi—“ you breathe, and you feel the sharp nip of his teeth on the back of your neck, hot mouth pausing against your skin before he pushes his head forward to land his lips behind your ear.“Te necesito,” he growls.It’s like a conditioned response, how weak you go for that voice. Your eyes fall shut of their own accord, head tilting to the side to give him access to your neck. He kisses his way down your neck, making you shiver. With his free hand he reaches over your dress to cup your breast. You let your eyes open in a lazy blink to look down, liking how his hand covers you, how he makes you spill out of the low neckline—and then you spot the blood on his shirt and you freeze.
Relationships: Javier Peña/Original Female Character(s), Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 94





	You Just Have to Whisper

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this request from [yespolkadotkitty](https://yespolkadotkitty.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr: _something about Javi coming home post-raid, all pent up and needing some loving, then whispering in an uncontrollable mix of Spanish and English while the lovin' goes down..._
> 
> Title is from Come On Come On by Mary Chapin Carpenter, which does not particularly match the mood of this fic (at all lol) but seemed like it worked title-wise. And is one of my favorite songs.

You don’t realize at first that anything’s out of the ordinary. Maybe he shuts the door a little loudly, maybe his footsteps are a pace too fast, maybe—maybe there’s a little more rasp to his voice when he calls your name, looking for you in the apartment. But you’re distracted, one hand stirring a wooden spoon in the pot on the stove and most of your attention on the cookbook in front of you, trying to figure out where you’ve gone wrong in the recipe. Because this definitely… doesn’t look right.

So you don’t turn around when you hear him stop in the doorway. You hum a quiet hello, tracing your finger along step eight and just starting to realize maybe you don’t actually know what it means to _deglaze the pan_ when he steps up behind you and reaches past your hip to turn off the heat under the pot. Before you can react, his other hand is pushing the cookbook away and pinning your hand to the formica countertop, holding you in place as he presses his hips against your ass, making you feel the hard bulge in his pants.

“Javi—“ you breathe, and you feel the sharp nip of his teeth on the back of your neck, hot mouth pausing against your skin before he pushes his head forward to land his lips behind your ear.

“ _Te necesito_ ,” he growls.

It’s like a conditioned response, how weak you go for that voice. Your eyes fall shut of their own accord, head tilting to the side to give him access to your neck. He kisses his way down your neck, making you shiver. With his free hand he reaches over your dress to cup your breast. You let your eyes open in a lazy blink to look down, liking how his hand covers you, how he makes you spill out of the low neckline—and then you spot the blood on his shirt and you freeze.

“Javi!” you say again, urgent now, scrambling to turn to face him, all your attention now drawn to his blood-stained shirtsleeve. “You’re bleeding.”

He looks at you dazedly for a second, lost, and then follows your gaze down his arm. “Oh,” he says. “It’s not mine.” Like that’s all that needs to be said.

“Jesus Christ.” Your heart is still pounding from the sick fear you’d felt, thinking he was injured, and his blasé response is upsetting. You can tell the moment he realizes it because his face falls, eyes going soft and apologetic.

“ _Lo siento_ ,” he murmurs, leaning in for a gentle kiss. He’s already bringing his hands up to unbutton his shirt, ready to discard it. “I should have changed before I came over, I just. Fuck, I needed to see you.”

He shrugs his ruined shirt onto the floor and cups your face in his hands, holding you steady as he kisses you deeply, chasing away your anxiety with the familiar taste of his mouth. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You run your hands down the unbroken skin of his arms, across the broad expanse of his back, checking for yourself that he’s come home to you in one piece. Grateful beyond words when you find him whole. He pulls you to his chest, resting his cheek against your hair. You sigh into the dip of his throat, content to stay just like this, but then you feel his fingers land on the back of your thighs, drawing the skirt of your dress up to gather in his hands so he can pull it up over your ass. He bunches the fabric in one fist, pressed to your lower back, and gropes you with his other hand, still pulling you close so you can feel him pressed hard at the base of your belly.

“C’mon, honey girl,” he murmurs. “Take this off and come to bed with me.”

“I’m…” You gesture reluctantly at the stove, sparing a glance at the sad concoction you’ve got mixed up in the pot. “Making dinner.”

“Leave it,” he insists, and you’re already following him as he drags you away. Always easy for him.

“C’mon,” he says again, getting you into the bedroom. “ _Vente ya_ ,” he mumbles against your mouth, too urgent to even kiss you properly, crowding you backwards till you feel the mattress hit the bend of your knees. He’s tugging again at your dress, pulling it over your head, and as soon as it’s off your arms you reach back and unhook your bra for him. That slows him down, just for a moment, pausing to go a little starry-eyed over the vision of your bare breasts. He leans down and closes his mouth over your nipple, catching it lightly between his teeth and giving a gentle tug. You feel the pleasure from it spread through your chest, making you shiver.

“C’mon,” he murmurs again, urging you backwards onto the bed. He snags his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down harshly, making the elastic sting your skin where it pulls too tight as it rolls down your thighs.

Your head is spinning a little, body still catching up to the abrupt switch from attempting to follow a gourmet recipe in the kitchen to experiencing a deep shot of arousal from Javi’s voice to the adrenaline rush of that panicky moment of fear and now—this, lying naked on the bed while he crowds over you, his own pants discarded. He is almost vibrating with need, pupils all blown out with lust when he gets close enough to kiss you again, his breath coming out warm and heavy where it hits your skin. He settles in between your legs, cock sliding against you, and he grinds forward and groans, reaching down with his hand. He pulls his mouth back, bites lightly at your chin, and feels at you with his fingers.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so wet, _querida_ , how are you so wet for me already?” He’s mumbling against your throat, rambling, hips working to grind against the crease of your thigh while his hand slips along the length of your cunt, feeling the evidence of your arousal.

It’s like he doesn’t realize. How far gone you are for him too. How needy he makes you. How your body is wired, by now, to respond as soon as he gets close. Maybe he doesn’t know that you would have been the one to drag him to bed if he’d spent just a few more minutes hovering behind you at the kitchen counter, letting you feel the heat of his body and the tease of his mouth against your neck. That you spend your days, sometimes, too, thinking about him. Needing him.

You run your hands over his broad shoulders, sliding down one bicep and scratching up into his hairline, giving a gentle massage to the back of his head and pressing his face against your shoulder. He nips your skin lightly, catches his hand over your clit, making you squirm and arch up against him, and then he can’t wait any longer and he drags himself away, molasses slow like it’s hard to release himself from your skin. He slaps the side of your hip, light but stinging, urging you to turn over, arranging you with his own body, getting you how he wants you. He presses your knees apart with his legs, pulling your hips back into his lap so he can get his dick wet, and then he lines himself over your back, skin to skin, pushing you forward onto the bed, and presses inside you. He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t work in slowly, but thrusts in deep right from the start, and you know you cry out but you can barely hear yourself over the loud, low groan that rips from his throat, resonating against your shoulder where he’s tucked his head.

“Fuck,” he says, and, “fuck, fuck, fuck,” he’s chanting, whispering, talking to himself. And then to you again, “God, you feel so good, fuck, you’re so—so tight, you feel—fucking perfect—“ And he’s nearly slurring his words by the end of it, breaking off into Spanish too mumbled and quiet against your back for you to make out, hot praise falling in panting breaths onto your bare skin.

Your arms are stretched above your head, gripping the bedsheets, and he’s fucking you so hard you would be sliding away, but he’s got a strong hold on your hip with his left hand and he’s wrapped his right arm around your torso, cupping under your breast so he can grip you hard without hurting you. It feels secure, reassuring, and you close your eyes and let your body just feel.

Over your own panting moans and his whispered, rasping speech is the slap of his skin against yours, the steady rhythm of his thrusts. He’s thick inside you, filling you up, fucking you deep, and it’s—pure pleasure, how he fits into you like you’re made for him. You know he won’t last long, he was so worked up from the start, and you want him inside you when you come so you slide one hand down to your clit to touch yourself. He sees it, or he feels it, because immediately he moves his hand from your waist to cover yours, his broad hand clutching yours and pressing your own fingers hard against your clit.

You swear, muffled against the bed, close to sobbing with the impact as you come hard, thighs closing so you go even tighter around him, and he follows a moment later, teeth grazing your back again as he stiffens and comes inside you.

“Fuck,” he says again, on a sigh, satisfied and worn out. He pulls you with him as he rolls onto his side, keeping you close so he can stay inside you for another minute, like he wants to savor you. His mouth goes gentle, pressing sweet kisses up your neck, and you tilt your head to kiss him back, slow and lazy now that you both are fucked out. He pulls out of you and you turn to face him, nuzzling against his chest and slinging your arm over his waist, playfully cupping his ass. Just for a warm place to rest your hand.

“That was… nice,” he sighs again, contentedly. You hum in agreement. And then, a little cautiously, he adds, “Sorry I ruined dinner.”

You smile against his skin, biting back a laugh, knowing that if anything, he had saved you both from suffering through eating it. “It’s okay,” you tell him, all faux magnanimity. “You already made it up to me.”


End file.
